


white noise

by vannral



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Near Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5096411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannral/pseuds/vannral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's trapped, and they're running out of time. Peter can't reach him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	white noise

     “ _Hey, Pete. Gotta tell you somethin’ - “_

Peter grips the comm tighter, his knuckles turning white. “No, no, no, don’t you dare, Clint. Don’t you dare, not now”, he breathes, his voice breaking from the seams. 

He hears a low laugh, humorless. “ _Sorry, not an option right now. Gotta tell it - tell it now, at least once, before - “_

     “No”, Peter shakes his head in frenzy; his hysteria, distress,  _pain_ bubbling inside him; hollowing him so utterly and completely. Time is ticking. “Screw before! No, you gotta be here to tell me whatever it is, I don’t care,  _get out of there!”_

He hears Clint’s laboured, painfully wheezing breathing. 

     “ _I’m trapped here. With all this bullshit bad guy crap. ‘s okay, Pete.”_

Peter’s throat constricts, burns, and his vision swims. “Screw you”, he chokes out, “nothing’s okay. Everything’s  _fucked.”_ It comes out as a strangled sob. He should be there with Clint. Like it’s supposed to be, Parker and Barton together, in fighting and death and blood, like it’s  _supposed to be, them or no one -_

     “ _Hey, hey - easy, ‘s gonna be okay. At least I can hear you, right?”_

     “N - no. You should be  _here._ Here, and not there, a - and I should be with you, and this isn’t  _right - “_

     “ _I love you.”_

Air rushes out of Peter’s lungs. The bottom of his world falls out. 

     “ _I love you so fucking much”,_ Clint continues roughly. _“You - you make me so goddamn happy, okay? You hearin’ me? Would’ve wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’d allowed it.”_

     “Always. Always, you dickhead, c’mon,  _come on, Clint, please - “_

A raspy laugh, broken. “ _Not a chance, Pete. Gonna go down with flames. A shitty way to go, damn…At least everyone else is safe, right?”_

Peter doesn’t care about that, not now. He’d - he’d give up anything to have Clint here, right now - 

     “I love you, too”, he gasps into the comm. “S - so, please…c’mon…” 

     “ _Pete - “_

And the building explodes. Flames. Red embers.  _Hellfire._

Peter’s heart stops. The world is silent; eerily void of every possible noise. No crackling. No screams. _Nothing._

_Everything is so quiet._

And Peter? Peter feels like he’s never going to be all right,  _ever again._

When Gwen died,  _because he was too slow,_ he thought he’d been broken beyond any repair. This? He feels like he’s been ripped from the inside out; torn open to bare flesh, and  _every single thing hurts._

Clint’s gone.  _Clint’s gone -_

Suddenly Peter can’t breathe; his lungs are working too fast,  _not enough,_ no air, his chest is collapsing in on itself, red and black haze fills his head, and  _he’s drowning from the inside -_

     “ - ter? Peter, breathe, you have to  _breathe - “_

_“ -_ he’s hyperventilating - “ 

Too much noise; hot blood pumping in his veins, his heart beating frantically in his chest,  _too much, Clint can’t, Clin’t can’t - nonononono -_

Someone grabs him, forces him to sit down. Tony. It’s Tony. 

     “Hey, Parker. Okay, listen, you gotta breathe, okay? Breathe with me, kid.” 

Peter can’t; he  _can’t -_ it’s too much, the loss is raw, bare, it’s like missing a  _limb,_ and he can’t  _breathe,_ his cheeks are wet with tears. 

     “He’s gone - h - he - “ he stammers. The only thing he can grasp.

A muscle in Tony’s jaw twitches. “I know, kid. But you gotta breathe”, he says, and Peter can’t  _understand what he’s saying, Clint’s gone, how the hell is breathing gonna work -_

It’s not going work. He’s  _alone._

*

Clint’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be dead. Or at least coughing his lungs out. Or  _something._ At least he hurts, so he figures he’s not dead quite yet, ‘cause being dead probably shouldn’t hurt. Maybe. 

He’s lying on his back in the room. Or bunker, or whatever the hell it’s supposed to be. Everything else is destroyed to shit apparently.

     “Crafty son of a bitch”, he grunts, annoyed. “What the hell, a bunker? Who builds a random bunker? Oh my  _God…”_

The room, bunker, is in tact. It’s dirty and shaken, but in tact, and Clint slumps back. He’s alive. He’s  _alive._ What the hell… 

     “… _gone.. h - he - “_

Clint opens his eyes, startled. The comms work? He fumbles with it, trying to get his voice out. “Hey! Hey, can anyone hear me? Pete?” 

Nothing. Or that’s what Clint believes, until he hears a desperate, dry heaving from the other end, and Peter’s voice that  _breaks Clint’s heart._

     “ _H - he - why - the jerk, why couldn’t he - ? I - “_

_They can’t hear him._

No words; just a mess, and a raw, wounded sound escapes from Peter’s throat, and Clint feels it, viscerally in his gut, like a knife digging into his chest. It’s Peter, in pain, and - and he thinks Clint’s  _dead,_ and now, he’s over there, and Clint can’t  _help -_

_Fuck! Gotta get down there, NOW._

*

Peter can’t function. How can he move? Just sit up, go somewhere? How can he go home? Clint is everywhere there; all of his things; his stupid plaid shirts, his hearing aids, his bow, their couch, their TV, the dart board, their  _stuff_ - 

Peter can’t breathe. His throat is closed up. 

Everything is there. Clint’s leftover pizza in the fridge and how Peter’d complained that it’s there, when they come back. Coffee pot, ‘cause Clint can’t use mugs in the mornings. 

_All of their stuff._

And Clint’s  _dead._ Peter thinks he’s going to split apart with  _agony of it all, all over again, and again, it’s overwhelming, raw, anguish, everywhere, MAKE IT STOP -_

He curls, into himself, closes off.  _He can’t go home, no, not when Clint’s not gonna come back, too -_

They try to talk to him. Peter can barely understand; he’s drowning, in his head. He can’t hear. Except,  _I love you, I love you…Pete…_  But it’s  _not -_

Static. White noise. 

_I can’t handle this. Not again, not **Clint** , I just - _

Tears spill on his white cheeks; salty and warm. It doesn’t feel enough. How long can his body produce tears, when his heart barely knows how to keep going?

     “ _Peter!”_

Peter doesn’t react. White noise. Static.  _I love you on the comms._ Not enough.  _I love you, too, come back._

Sounds, but sounds that are wrong; gasps, whispering, shouting. What the hell does it matter? Peter doesn’t move. He’s startled, when he senses someone approaching and dropping on their knees in front of him. 

It’s Clint. 

Clint, whose face is dirty with blood, Clint, whose eyes look very bright underneath all of it. 

Peter’s stomach lurches.  _He’s hallucinating. He’s gotta be. No way Peter gets mercy, no way he gets miracles._ Not after Uncle Ben and Gwen, no way - 

     “Pete”, Clint says, his voice rough, low, frantic. “Hey, darlin’. Hey, look, ‘s me.” 

Peter gapes at him, numbly. “You died”, he says, stuttering. “T - the explosion. You  _died.”_

     “Nah, no, I didn’t. I was apparently in a bunker. Which was…bomb-proof, couldn’t even tell, I - God, Pete, I’m so  _sorry”,_ he gasps, brushing Peter’s wet cheek. Calloused fingers, hard.  _Real. He’s real?_

     “Y…you’re  _alive?”_ Peter stammers. He feels dumb, he feels like his brain can’t handle this informational flood. “You’re  _alive?”_

     “Yeah, I’m alive. Took a bit of tumblin’ and a beat down, but yeah, ‘m alive.” 

Peter’s trembling hand lands on Clint’s chest. He waits.  _Thump-thump-thump._ With a choked sound, Peter’s hands curl into the back of Clint’s neck, pulls him closer and hugs Clint so tightly their bones ache.  

     “You scared me. I - I thought - I couldn’t - I didn’t know what to do”, Peter breathes against Clint’s lips. 

     “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Jesus, Pete…” 

That’s when Peter dives in; they kiss desperately, close, so close as humanly possible, not even an inch between them _,_ it’s a hard, hungry kiss, fueled by grief,  _relief, love-love-love,_  Peter holding him so tightly, and they breath together, through tears and broken words. 

     “I love you - “ 

     “Love you, too, Jesus,  _everything_  - “ 

 And it’s right; oh, it’s so viscerally right, like two puzzle pieces perfectly fitting together. Clint won’t let go; Peter buries his face into the crook of Clint’s neck, trembling, his fear still settled in his bones, and Clint holds him. 

They sleep the next night tangled together; Clint’s arms protectively around Peter’s waist, and Peter cuddling against him. It’s all right. It’s their lives; turmoil, death and saving, dodge and hit in equal measures, but this? Their lives? Every single time, it’s just as beautiful.

*

**Author's Note:**

> These buttheads are destroying me.   
> Thank you for reading! :)


End file.
